


we dont talk about it

by astralZenith



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Trans Female Sam Winchester, Trans Male Dean Winchester, Transphobia, backgound deancas but only if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-25 20:15:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30094545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astralZenith/pseuds/astralZenith
Summary: But Mary is confused. Scared. So when the two adults, a man and a woman who know far too much about her to be faking it, claim to be her son and daughter, she believes it. It doesn't matter that she swears her daughter had a lighter hair color than that. It doesn't matter that the smiles they both put on look so forced when she calls them by name.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	we dont talk about it

**Author's Note:**

> hey so im trans and i have mommy issues and im taking it out on these two. might come back and add more to this idk its more of a vent fic than anything. 
> 
> also some observant folks may be able to tell i took heavy inspiration from some trans winchesters tumblr posts and to that i say i would credit those geniuses if i could remember who they were and also, if any of those lovely people find this: ily and im kissing you gently on the mouth. please tell me who you are cuz tumblr sure wont

It happened years ago the way most things happen between them- with a fight.  
  
Outside some run down diner in the middle of fuck all nowheresville, where the staff aren't paid enough to care about the shouting and potential blood being spilled in their parking lot, where Sam has once again had enough of pretending its all ok and pushes and pushes until suddenly Deanna is yelling that it's _Dean_ and has always been _Dean_. But Sam can't stop now and somewhere between anger and the tears and the cacophony of _it's not fair_ playing on loop in her mind she finds her mirrored confession drawn from her own bloody lips without her consent, and from there its quiet as it ever was between them. So much unspoken. Not enough said to heal the wounds.  
  
But her brother looks to her, voice softer than it should be, and he asks "Should I stop calling you Sammy?", and she knows immediately that it's as close to a peace offering as she's going to get. And she knows if she says yes Dean would die before he let the nickname fall from his mouth again.  
  
So instead she shakes her head, unable to stop the fond smile that comes out at the relief Dean shows for only a moment before falling back into his persona of cool indifference that makes much more sense now than it ever has. There's still some part of her that wants to talk this out, to work through the bullshit they both carry like crosses erected on the hill that bears their father's name, but deep down she knows Dean isn't ready for that kind of talk, and probably never will be.  
  
Her brother reaches back to offer her a beer, and she takes it. They both stare quietly into the neon light radiated by the diner, not bothering to hide their bitter smiles as they both think of how lucky they are that their parents are both dead, no matter how much they might miss ~~one of~~ them.  
  
By the end of the week, Dean's made them a new range of fake IDs to match what they'd already known deep down for so long. Sam inherits all the old stuff Dean had kept around for 'blending in' (there's not much and none if it fits). Dean researches top surgery between rounds of taking out werewolves while Sam finally lets herself wear makeup and deliberates over whether or not she wants to keep her blessedly gender neutral birthname or find something different, something new and clean of all those bad memories. Maybe Sarah. Or Joan.   
  
She never really figures it out, though she can't help but smile when Dean's calls of "Samantha" become more fond than teasing. So maybe she doesn't need to figure it out so fast.  
  
\---  
  
The name thing comes back like a knife to the gut when they both find themselves standing in front of Mary Fucking Winchester, back from the dead.  
  
They've both changed. To say they pass completely would be giving them too much credit, since Sam's height and Dean's obsessive posturing tend to lead more observant folks to the right conclusions, but you really can't say they _don't_ anymore. Twenty different stolen insurance policies made sure of that years ago, somewhere between fighting off monsters and coming back from hell. Dean still insists the surgical scars on his chest were from a birth defect, no matter who asks.  
  
But Mary is confused. Scared. So when the two adults, a man and a woman who know far too much about her to be faking it, claim to be her son and daughter, she believes it. It doesn't matter that she swears her daughter had a lighter hair color than that. It doesn't matter that the smiles they both put on look so forced when she calls them by name.  
  
It doesn't matter that Sammy, the little boy who never had the chance to know or become attached to her seems to view her as his perfect infallible mother Mary who bakes pies and doesn't swear while Deanna, the sweet little girl she actually raised for a few precious years just looks on like she's a stranger. She's in the future now. There's cell phones and demons and the internet to figure out. The rest can work itself out from there.  
  
(But somewhere- between the anxious minutes she spends calling her children's names and the soft panic that crosses their faces when they finally answer, between the excuses of shotgun blasts and banshee screams for their hard hearing, between the silent dinners and uncomfortable exchanges and the 'angel' that her son spends too much time with refusing to use any names at all when she's around her children- she finds time to curse John Winchester for doing this to her. For her parents. For letting her die. For turning her children into hunters. For this unnamed thing that sits uncomfortably in the back of her mind that she cannot address, not now. Maybe not ever. She curses him for ruining her children and rages over what she's lost.)   
  
(If her children hear it, or spend a few days afterward unable to meet their mother's eyes, it's never brought up. Like so many other things between them)  
  
\---  
  
The thing that always surprised Sam the most about her brother was how quickly his teasing and insults seemed to stop altogether once she came out to him.  
  
She'd entirely expected that the 'ovaries' jokes were going to come back with a vengeance, or that maybe those self loathing little digs he always made about himself would start crossing over towards her now that they were both freaks, but it never happened. If anything, her brother was downright _supportive_ , from how he would loudly proclaim to anyone in earshot that this was 'my beautiful little sister, so be nice to her, will ya?' or how suddenly the ban on anything feminine was gone without a trace one day, replaced with 'yeah Sammy we can watch one of those chick flicks if you want' or 'sure Sammy I can braid your hair if you want me to' and a load of other things he would have avoided like the plague before he'd even come out to her.  
  
And it didn't help that he seemed to hold none of those same courtesies regarding himself. He was either a perfectly normal cis man or the scum of the earth, there was no in between. Especially in the beginning when neither of them really passed well enough to not get clocked, he would always just grind his teeth and deal with the being called ma'am for as long as it took to get them out of the situation, but _oh_ if anyone dared to misgender his little sister. She was always surprised at how quickly he'd correct people for her sake, or how willing he was to take a beating if it meant she didn't have to deal with people like that.   
  
But of course, when she asked, he had no idea what she was talking about. He wasn't acting any different. Quit being weird. Go do your makeup or something.  
  
And Sam would roll her eyes and storm off, and they'd be back to square one.  
  
___  
  
Things are tense around their mother, and they aren't quite sure how its lasted this long without a fight. Maybe they're too used to John and the drunken rages that formed their childhood. Mary is something different, something passive yet more aware than John ever was. If something was ever off about _his_ children, he buried it under layers of salt and shotgun shells and alcohol. But for Mary it seems to........linger, grow stronger with each awkward moment they can't bluff their way out of quickly enough.  
  
There's no hiding the way Dean's shoulders tense up when Mary calls out "Deanna, sweetie, can you help me with something?" from another room, or the way Sam's hand stays on his shoulder for longer than normal when she calls back "Sure thing mom, just give me a second." Or the stuttering breath Dean lets out only when he knows they're both gone.

There's no hiding startled laugh that forces it's way out of Sam's throat the first time she realizes that Mary thinks she's the older one now, the one that should be looking after her little brother, nor is there hiding the amused incredulity from her brother's face at the thought. There especially isn't any hiding the bitter silence they share together afterwards, memories of souls being sold and the bloody pulp Dean left behind out of the first guy that ever called his sister a _tranny_ while he was within earshot, even though he'd gladly called himself that more times than she could count.  
  
And it certainly doesn't take Mary long to notice that crippling devotion either.  
  
\---  
  
"Tell me the truth," she demands, when the little things finally weigh too heavily on her soul. "I'm your _mother_ , you have to tell me when something's wrong."  
  
And Dean's the one she's cornered, alone, and he's sure it's because she knows that even if it breaks him in two he can't tell her no.  
  
"We've changed," he finally says, voice tinged with desperation that doesn't make sense to her now. "You weren't here. I'm so sorry."  
  
It's not a confession, but it's the only confirmation that Mary needs. She sobs "He did this to you, didn't he? John did. Why did you let him turn you into this, Deanna? You were such a beautiful little girl."  
  
Dean barely even flinches upon hearing that name. He's too busy pleading with his mother, his Hail Mary's lacking any repentance but he says them anyway, because what else can he do? "I'm sorry. I told you things changed, you have to understand-"  
  
"What is there to understand?" She demands, ruthless as she drives her way towards her point. Always a hunter. "Knowing that my husband raised two hunters instead of children was enough as it was, but to know he raised two _crossdressers_ -"  
  
"No! No, he- he fucked us up good, but this ain't his fault. There's a lot you can blame on him, but not this. Even if you'd stuck around, I never would have been your daughter." The admission feels like pulling teeth, wishing this was all something he could push off on John like everything else that's wrong with them. "Maybe he did some parts of it, yeah. But not everything. I'm sorry."  
  
Somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear his sister's triumph over him finally admitting that _maybe_ his idea of what it was to be a man had been harshly impacted by their train wreck of a father. But right now Dean's too busy focusing on their weeping mess of a mother, and the impact _that_ might have on their future.  
  
Mary is pacing and running her hands raggedly through her hair, crumbling before his very eyes and he has no idea how to fix it. If it even _can_ be fixed. His own self loathing for having done this to her hits its peak right before the distance sounds of footsteps and a door being opened further down in the bunker alert them both to the fact that Sam is home, and she has no idea what she's about to walk into.  
  
Without question, Dean places himself between Mary and the door. "Don't blame her for this either. This ain't- she can't help it, neither of us can."  
  
A broken little laugh escapes from her this time, tearing through Dean like a rusty nail through the skin. "Then who? Who did this to you? Why would- is it because I wasn't there? Because I died? Am I the one that did this to you?"  
  
He just shakes his head sadly at her, his mind running like an overloaded computer trying to play minecraft at it's highest settings. He hasn't had to think this much about the root of his, his- _whatever_ since Sam confronted him a few months back on how he maybe kinda would be better off mentally if he addressed the whole 'bisexual' thing he's been skirting around for years now. And he still hasn't quite come to terms with that, if he's being honest.   
  
Sam's the one who would know how to answer this, had always understood the whole 'gender' thing and had tried so many times to get him to talk about it too, and for once he's kinda regretting not trying harder to listen to those conversations, because he doesn't have an answer. But he'd die before he'd lead his little sister into this room to get hurt by the mess he'd already made of their mother. So as his mind tries to reboot itself, he resorts to his default settings of _do what it takes to protect Sam_. "It wasn't- it ain't your fault. If you gotta blame anyone, blame me. It was- I should have been _better_."

He's surprised to find that unlike John, his mother isn't as eager to accept his offering of himself as a scapegoat for any little thing that might have gone wrong. She just looks at him with sad, mournful eyes that don't entirely recognize him, before she turns further into the room and seemingly ends the conversation there, without another word. He swallows dryly and flees, unable to cope with whatever it is that just happened between them. He could have understood yelling. He could have handled a punch or two. But he can't handle _this,_ all the things left unsaid.  
  
Surprisingly, the first thing he does is seek out his sister.   
  
\---  
  
It took a full hour of Dean anxiously hovering near a Sam that was growing more concerned by the minute before he actually said a word to her. For once, she didn't try to pry it out of him, just sat and watched as her brother seemed to work his way through all five stages of grief before he settled next to her on the sofa and quietly said "She knows. I'm sorry."  
  
It took even longer for her to coax the full story out of him, laced with apologies she could tell were leftover from the weird half-fight he'd had with their mother. She tells him, repeatedly and patiently, that it's not his fault, they couldn't have expected it to last forever, all while silently trying to come up with a way to talk to her about this later when Dean isn't around to stop them. Because he would try, and she knows it.  
  
Things are quiet again after that, both of them just sharing in each other's presence, one of the few constants they could seemingly rely on if only because they were both too stubborn to let well enough alone anymore. Then, without warning, Dean says "Wasted a good gender is what you did. I could've used that, you know."  
  
Her startled laugh is as joyous as it is shocked, and she cautiously says "Look who's talking. You didn't even ask me if I wanted your tits before you got rid of them."  
  
She's graced with another miracle as Dean snorts and finally meets her eyes "No little sister of mine is getting no secondhand tits. Had to make you grow your own. Builds character."  
  
This time she huffs, almost offended but it doesn't stick through the sheer amount of incredulous happiness she's feeling. "That- that's not how this works, Dean. That's not how any of this works."  
  
"Oh? _Enlighten_ me, then." There's no malice in it, and Sam can see that behind the taunt there's a genuine invitation for her to tell him more. A promise hidden underneath that he'll actually listen this time.  
  
So she does. She tells him so much, and for once he engages back with things of his own. They talk about their dysphoria. What they might have done if they'd come out sooner, if Dad had known. How they're coping now and how Dean can't help but feel like an imposter in his own skin, like the shapeshifters and changelings they hunt or get hunted by depending on what day it is. And she tells him how its more complex for her than just being a girl, how there's more than just two boxes to throw themselves into and she can tell he's not _quite_ getting it but he's trying, good god is he _trying_ for her. It's more than she'd ever thought possible.  
  
They spend hours like this, everything they'd left unsaid coming out slowly like a wounded deer being coaxed from the woods, but eventually they reach more of an understanding of each other than they've had in years.  
  
And somehow they're able to forget their mother, who's trapped herself in a room mourning a daughter and son that never really existed, while her real children talk openly just a few rooms away. 


End file.
